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It’s more of a feeling I had. I… sensed that whatever their relationship had been in the early

    days of their betrothal, it had changed.”
    “What did she say exactly?” he asked.
    Mary drew a deep breath and shook her head. “It’s not what she said, Lord Renn, but what she didn’t say.”
    Marcus wanted to grind his teeth. Instead he rubbed his forehead harshly with his palm. “Miss Marsh—”
    “I know, I’m being evasive and unclear.”
    He blinked as his hand fell to the desktop, unsure how to reply to that honest and accurate confession.
    She turned to him and dropped her arms, smiling vaguely. “Please remember, Lord Renn, that your sister Christine and I were not friends in the truest sense, not equals, but we were women in spirit. I’ve worked with many ladies through the years and I’ve seen brides-to-be blush and shiver and glow with excitement at the prospect of marrying. I’ve also seen apprehension, nervousness, some even angry or resigned to the choice of husband made for them.” She slowly began to walk toward him again, head lowered in thought. “But your sister acted differently, in a manner I can’t exactly describe. She seldom talked of the viscount, to me or anyone, as far as I know, and when she did, her words were tinged with… something. I don’t know. Resentment, maybe? A kind of fear? Disgust? It’s just something I can’t explain.”
    Marcus leaned back in his chair once more, stiffly. Of all the things he’d imagined might have troubled Christine these last few weeks, his thoughts hadn’t once strayed to her betrothal to Baudwin Fife. The Viscount Exeter had been the natural choice for her to wed for years, and everybody knew it, including Christine. Exeter’s land bordered theirs, and his family had been involved with the mines for generations, just as the earl’s family had. In every logical respect, the match had been ideal. Baudwin was twenty-five or so, titled, intelligent, and Christine had always liked him. Marcus had liked him as well whenever he’d seen him. A marriage between the families would put a sure holding on the china mines in all of St. Austell. Everyone involved knew that, including his sister.
    “Did Christine ever confide in you about her feelings?” he asked, throat tight.
    Mary shook her head and interlocked her fingers in front of her. “No, not really.” She briefly pressed her lips together, then added, “But the change in her appeared to be rather sudden, my lord. When I first arrived, she acted as any lady might toward her upcoming marriage.
    She attended parties with the viscount as his betrothed, held teas with your mother, laughed and seemed genuinely ready for the change in her

    life. A bit nervous, perhaps, but that’s to be expected. Weeks later the laughter died in her, though she never said why.”
    And then she died.
    Marcus swallowed and dropped his gaze to the polished black walnut beneath his arms, his body hard and immobile, his mind rushing with confusion, irritation, a surging of helplessness. But he refused to allow himself to break down and show his private emotions to anyone, especially a woman, and one he didn’t even know.
    Instead, he inhaled a solid breath, reached into his top desk drawer, and removed one of the letters his sister had sent him. Holding it in front of him, he stared at the expressive feminine handwriting that was Christine’s, feeling her presence, as if to hold something of hers made her tangible again. In a moment’s decision, he chose not to hand it to Mary to read. It was simply too personal, still too painful.
    “My sister sent this letter to me shortly before she died, Miss Marsh.
    In it, she writes that she is afraid— afraid —for her future. She also says plainly that you are the only one she can trust, but that you will soon be leaving.” He looked up. “And then she begged me to come home.”
    His voice sounded hollow to him as it seemingly echoed off the wooden walls that